


Brooklyn Calling

by IrishCreamTruffle



Series: Love is Stronger than Witchcraft [1]
Category: NXT, Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrishCreamTruffle/pseuds/IrishCreamTruffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SLASH. Becky Lynch/Sasha Banks. Becky waxes poetic on mean girls and liking things that she shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brooklyn Calling

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Becky Lynch/Sasha Banks 
> 
> Rating: PG-13
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own no one. As far as I know, this has never happened. Just my warped imagination at work again. I also am not making a dime off this. – And it sucks. 
> 
> Notes: Hey, everyone! It’s been a while since I’ve been at it. I’ve been dying to write something forever now, but I’ve been a slave to paying my bills. I can’t believe it’s been over a year since I’ve written. Thank you again to everyone who has supported my writing and provided such kind feedback; unfortunately I haven’t been able to bestow the same, but just know that there is a huge amount of talent out there and you all keep me in awe. 
> 
> Anyways… rambling aside… my first femslash! I’m pretty excited. It takes place directly after the 4 horsewomen celebration at Takeover. Mostly Cannon/KayFabe. These ladies have totally gained my allegiance, and I had to show them some love. I’ve been dying for something these two for a while, but nothing so far, so I figured that I should throw it out there. Fingers crossed that I’m not too rusty! Help me come up with a ship name?
> 
> Also, I dedicate this fic to MxJoyride’s workout socks. 
> 
> For maximum feelz, I highly recommend playing the following songs on shuffle within your Spotify:
> 
> Pavement - “Grounded,” “In the Mouth A Desert,” “You Are a Light,” “Cream of Gold,” “Rattled by the Rush,” “Black Out,” “Father to a Sister of Thought”
> 
> The Bats – “North by North,” 
> 
> Seam – “Hey Latasha”
> 
> Guided by Voices – “Pivotal Film,” “Everywhere with Helicopter,” “Buzzards and Dreadful Crows,” “Get to Know the Ropes,” “Privately”
> 
> Robert Pollard – “Faulty Superheros,” “Subspace Biographies”
> 
> Yo La Tengo – “Tom Courtenay”
> 
> Built to Spill – “Carry the Zero”
> 
> Mark Lanegan/PJ Harvey – “Hit the City,” “Come to Me,” “Out of Nowhere,” “Methamphetamine Blues”
> 
> Japandroids – “Continuous Thunder,” “The House that Heaven Built,” “The Night of Wine and Roses,” “Younger Us”
> 
> Sonic Youth – “Reena”

She’s not welcome here.

That much is clear when Becky walks into Sasha’s dressing room. And that’s about the reaction that Becky expected. Sasha’s never liked surprises, and an enemy walking into her dressing room without knocking supersedes the definition of a surprise. Becky surmises that she can’t be terribly affronted by the reaction, and it’s not of any matter to her regardless.

Sasha’s eyes meet Becky’s by way of the mirror before Sasha actually turns around to face her. When she does, it’s more like an unfurling, happens in a blur of glittery ring gear and a fanning of pink hair that’s entirely inappropriate for Sasha’s mood. Sasha leans back against the make-up table—forcefully—so forcefully that Becky can’t tell whether it was because she lost her balance or not.

Sasha’s face has blended into one washed palette of color. Becky has taken on that hue more than she’d like to admit. It’s the color that comes when you’ve been crying really hard, for a really long time – when destroyed eyeliner has long found its way to being smeared all over your face, and when the only highlight is a strained, angry blush on your cheeks.

The color may have bled out of Sasha’s face, but the savagery in her eyes is as bright as ever, flickering sharp and incandescent, overcompensating much in pattern with a cornered animal. Sasha braces her arms on the make up table behind her, fingers curling around the edges punishingly, the bones of her knuckles pushing furious white against the skin of her hands. Sasha’s mouth opens, and Becky’s legs take that as a cue a few paces before her brain does, feet moving in swift paces from the doorway to where Sasha leans. Becky knows what Sasha is going to say, and as she closes the breadth, Sasha’s voice, raspy and deep, cuts through the poor acoustics of the room, “it didn’t mean--“

Becky knows that the distance needs to be entirely eradicated before Sasha finishes the sentence. She moves between the breaths of the words like an obstacle course. Becky has the space of a few words to stop Sasha from disregarding the gravity that pulled them side by side as they stood in the ring, the accidental brush of their fingers when Sasha went to move her hair off her own forehead, the transformation of the kitten-like wrinkle of Sasha’s nose into an effulgent smile when she realized the fingers were Becky’s—leaning up and in, all warmth and softness and huge brown eyes as Becky moved her hair over her shoulder.

Three words: that’s as much time as Becky has. And that’s okay. She can work with that.

Her hand is in Sasha’s hair with the enunciation of the letter 'n' in the word 'mean'. During the inhalation of the air following the word, she realizes that her hand is already deeply weaved into a tangle wrought by strenuous battle. Before Sasha can utter the word 'anything,' Becky has stopped the flow of words with the upward tilt of Sasha’s head and the downward press of her mouth. For at least a second, Becky can be relieved.

Because if Becky hadn’t gotten there in time, it would all be over—Sasha’s guard, impenetrable and cool as ever, would be up in full force and would stay up in full force. Sasha would have brushed it off as an overwhelming sense of pride and sportsmanship.

Sasha had a tendency to do that—get emotional and affectionate after competition, even with the most acidic of her nemeses. Becky had made fun of her for it once.

Sasha had deserved it.

It had followed an ill-fated dig that Sasha made soon after they first aligned. Becky’s back had been turned to Sasha as she piled her gym bag into the trunk of the car. Becky leaned over; Sasha had been going on about something that Becky wasn’t listening to—some trash about some other opponent, Becky figured. Becky had briefly catalogued that there was no more voice before she felt a disregarding swipe of fingertips through the edges of her hair. Becky turned to Sasha, eyebrow raised.

Sasha had grinned before speaking, the type of grin that never leads to anything good. “But lucky for me, I’ve got you. But just a tip,” Sasha leaned in and twirled a strand of Becky’s hair around her finger, bored eyes focused on the tip as she looped it around her finger several times, “this whole rocker chick gig’s been done before. Heard of Lita? Look her up some time.”

Sasha’s eyelids lowered, a deceitfully gentle downward flutter, as her eyes moved down Becky’s body, settled on her plaid pants. She tapped the backs of her fingers against the waistline of Becky’s jeans thoughtlessly. “Same thing for the pants. AJ Lee’s kinda got dibs on the ugly plaid skinny jeans scene.”

Becky sighed, careful to close—not slam—the trunk. Sasha’s eyes were still turned downward, her finger’s playing at one of Becky’s belt loops. Becky leaned against the car, an elbow propped on the trunk. She’d met plenty of mean girls in her time. Half of the time, she was one. Sometimes she ignored them; sometimes she befriended them. But eventually –all the time—she hurt them.

She knew what this was: a mean girl’s attempt at keeping her in check, a naughty child showing off.

She wasn’t impressed.

She pushed off her leg and rose to her full height, to Sasha’s height. Becky stepped in closer; this seemed like a good time to get in Sasha’s face. Set some things straight.

Sasha’s eyes stayed downward for another moment, a shimmery canvas of rose colored eyeshadow and inky black eyeliner under the weak, flickering light of the street lamp. She looked up, unsurprised—unperturbed—by Becky’s closeness. She stepped in closer, a challenging squint in her eye, “what’s the matter, Becky? That bother you or something? You gonna do something about it?”

This made Becky raise both of her eyebrows. But nevertheless, she knew better than to let Sasha get her angry. That was when Sasha became dangerous; it was a talent, really, how she could pull even the tiniest thread of anger and use it to completely burrow herself under your skin. It was a big part of why Becky had made the decision to get into business with her in the first place.

And that’s exactly what this was. Business.

“Well, I don’t know, lass,” Becky laid on the Irish accent extra heavy, because she had it in her to be a little obnoxious herself, “I might be a little afraid of whatcha might do to me,” she laughed softly, “if I get on yer bad side, are ya gonna cry an’ hug me too?”

And this time, Sasha did look surprised. Becky expected her to look pissed off. With Sasha’s temper, this could have easily led to a fist fight in the parking lot. With Becky’s temper… this could have easily led to a fist fight in the parking lot.

Sasha pulled her fingers away from Becky’s belt loop. Blood red lips curled upward into a smile and she nodded to herself. She took a step back and looked Becky over. (Approvingly? It seemed like Sasha was approving). “Yeah… this is going to work.”

Yeah. Approvingly.

With that, Sasha had turned around and walked over to the driver’s side of the car.

Becky stood there for just a second longer as Sasha walked away from her. She laughed, something oddly fond and effortless and involuntary, the heat of challenge morphing into easy amusement.

She shook her head, ran a hand through her hair, and made her way to the passenger side.

“Yeah, I think it is,” Becky muttered to herself before she opened the door.

But now isn’t then. Now is now.

She expects Sasha to fight against this, for millions of reasons, but mostly because that’s what Sasha does. And Becky can’t really judge, because that’s what she does too.

But Sasha doesn’t fight at all. Sasha—opposite of fights. Gets both hands in Becky’s hair, presses in closer with a delicious, breathless little sound. Sasha’s tongue is warm and soft at her lips, distracting as she begins to push off the table as much as Becky will allow.

And it’s manipulative what Sasha does; drags Becky in closer to kiss her harder, but twists her body the other way, an attempt to turn them around. But Becky knows who she’s dealing with, and Sasha can’t quite get her feet positioned well enough to make the move, and Becky makes sure she stays exactly like that.

Becky’s hands drift down Sasha’s sides, fastening firmly at the (extremely) small of Sasha’s waist, and she bears down marginally to keep them just where they are. It’s as Becky’s thumbs stroke the soft skin covering her ribs that she realizes—all brazen fury and interesting venom aside—just how tiny Sasha is, so tiny that even Becky’s small hands are able to grip the whole expanse comfortably.

She can’t help the thought—the thought that Sasha’s some concentration of dynamite packed into a pretty, svelte vessel for Becky grasp within the palms of her hands. She likes that she can grip so much of her so easily, hands unsinged when anyone else’s would be cauterized.

And they’d never talked about this. About sexuality, about love, about romance, about anything like this. Weird considering they’d moved in such close quarters. Beyond weird.

Although somewhere in the back of Becky’s mind, at some low simmer just above her subconscious, she had considered that this could be a possibility.

Just little flits here and there, really… car rides that should have been miserable but weren’t. Between press events, fewer and further between than for the main roster, but present nonetheless.

Becky remembered Sasha chittering about the way you do after a long drive, poor Bayley becoming the topic of conversation. Sasha’s hands were moving about wildly instead of being even semi-securely fastened on the steering wheel, but a little danger had never bothered Becky anyways.

Sasha’s hands moved in rhythm with her laughter, voice mocking: “Oh, you know, I’m just happy to be here… just a girl in the big city trying to have it all… what is this, goddamn Carrie Bradshaw in Sex in the City?”

Becky snorted out her own laugh. “Oh, yeah, because that’s in low supply and high demand.”

And that, surprisingly, made Sasha laugh. Like, really laugh.

Sasha liked mean jokes. Becky liked mean jokes. Becky liked that Sasha liked mean jokes.

Sasha had snuck her an incredulous side glance as they drove along, still snickering softly. “Did you really just use economics to burn someone?”

It was Becky’s turn to be surprised. She hadn’t expected Sasha to catch onto her macroeconomics reference. Not that she didn’t think Sasha was smart, but Becky had never seen Sasha lend particular attention to technicality—at least, not unless it led to dislocating someone’s shoulder.

But Becky recovered, indulged in being impressed with herself. “Certainly did. Verbal backhand, if you will.”

As they came to a red light, Sasha had adjusted a little in her seat so she could look at Becky, shook her head fondly, giggled a little more. “Yeah. I will.”

Becky had started laughing, oddly endeared to the softness peeking out through multiple layers of petty cruelty, begrudgingly realizing in that simmering, just-above subconsciousness that this wasn’t just business.

In the quiet, dim pockets of her brain where Becky had envisioned something like this happening, she’d had a more romanticized depiction of how it might come about. She had visualized something more along the lines of them leaving the arena, the Florida sunset hot on their backs, hitting Becky’s hair, making it burn and glow like fire. Their eyes would linger and lock until one of them inevitably moved in.

But that wasn’t what they had. *This* is what they have, the harsh and unforgiving fluorescents of university dressing room, a mess of ruined make up and matted hair, stifled exhales the only thing louder than the buzzing drone of a broken ventilator.

This is what they have.

And *this* is so much better—Sasha soft and malleable in her hands, nibbling charmingly at Becky’s lower lip, entirely beguiling and serpentine. It doesn’t fool Becky for a second, bewitching as the wolf in sheep’s clothing is. It’s unsurprising when Sasha gets her own hands at Becky’s waist, coils to switch spots, to assert. But Becky doesn’t regale her, instead chants “relax” breathily against Sasha lips, tightens her arms around Sasha’s waist until Sasha listens to her.

This is better.

There’s no doubt that this is better.


End file.
